


Artistry

by stellations



Series: Out of the Blue [1]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e19 Out Of The Blue, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellations/pseuds/stellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set in the <i>Out of the Blue</i> alternate setting. What if this were an actual universe and not a dream?<br/>The Five as various types of artists with John being the odd one out, as usual.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Antics

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the _Out of the Blue_ alternate setting. What if this were an actual universe and not a dream?  
>  The Five as various types of artists with John being the odd one out, as usual.

They were all drunk. 

Honestly, it reminded her of their university days, picking through the bodies crashed on the floor of her living room while she tried not to show anyone just how heavy her steps always were. The only difference was the body on the comfortable surface of the plush couch; former senator Ranna Seneschal had taken Helen's place, displacing the owner of the entire establishment to either the floor, where John's absence could still be felt, or her own room. The latter might be more comfortable, but she was a far cry from trusting the boys to be left to their own devices.

She _had_ , after all, studied with them. 

It wasn't as though she could sleep as it was anyway. She hadn't honestly been able to sleep since her wedding night, when she had finally realized just how cold and difficult John was. Abusive, her therapist had said, before she stopped seeing him. Doctor Bigfoot. Called her "Old Friend." She still didn't understand why. She had stopped seeing him right about the time she had finally moved out of John's house, somewhere around the point when her electrician had told her that the house would need an entire make-over. Luckily, she had gotten the hell out of both the house and her marriage, so they would both leave her alone and she could stop worrying about locking her cat up every time someone came over.

Or, well, mostly the marriage part. John was, as ever, being difficult. And his latest visit was, of course, how this entire night started.

She was beginning to regret allowing them all inside her house again. It was just like old times, as Nigel had so delightfully reminded her. With the only Druitt in the room being Helen herself. Since Ranna had been crashing on Helen's couch ever since her scandalous fall from senatorial grace, naturally she was present as well. Helen paused in the middle of the room, trying not to step on a human or a cat as Henry glided underfoot at just the wrong moment. Thank God James had the sense to leave his two dogs, Alistair and Declan, at his home or something likely would have died by now. 

"The kiln must be on, because someone in this room is hot."

Helen rolled her eyes and nudged Nikola with her foot as she passed by his prone form. He wasn't asleep; she knew he slept even less than she did. None of them had ever been very good about sleeping, but Nikola and Helen were the worst. With her luck, they would all be awake and then nothing would get done and she would have to nurse their hangovers on top of her own. Dammit, she hated doing that. 

And the smell of coffee already brewing. Nigel's doing, most likely.

To combat that, she made her way to the stove, setting the kettle on for tea, before she picked a nice, calming Oolong. 

"Eugh, whose black sludge is that?" Nikola whined, wrinkling his nose at the coffee maker as he made his way into the kitchen with her. Of course he wasn't asleep. 

Helen settled her tea bag into her cup, head bowed over it so as not to pay too much attention to Nikola. The light of the full moon shone down on them, practically staring through the large windows in her kitchen as if to ask her what she was doing there. The only good part of this was that she could see perfectly without turning on a light and running the risk of waking everyone else up. She had done this many a night in the other house when she wanted to get some of her energy and pain out while John was still asleep. Over the years, it had become second nature.

A very painful second nature.

"Nigel's," she answered finally, snapping herself out of her thoughts. 

"You'd think, after so many decades of friendship with such aficionados as the two of us, people like Nigel and James would figure out how to be more..." He paused, as if trying to pull up just the right word to go along with his obvious distaste. Helen glanced up through her eyelashes to see the wrinkle to his nose and the way his lips turned downward. "... _civilized_."

"I thought you liked coffee."

Nikola waved a hand dismissively, like he hadn't always drunk coffee, like she hadn't known him to turn down everything except wine in favor of it. "I gave it up after Johnny turned rogue. You know that."

Right. Another side-effect of her stress. Memory loss. 

"More civilized, hmm? What would you call that barbaric concoction you mixed up tonight?" James questioned easily, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. 

Helen sighed wearily. All she wanted was to be left alone. Tonight, tomorrow, and forever. These three, the remainder of their university group, never let her do that. 

"That was a margarita with a twist," Nikola shot back, his voice dripping with mock irritation. "And it was specially made for you. Honestly, I'm offended you didn't like it."

"Tasted like ass," Nigel quipped, walking into the kitchen with a grin on his face. "If you want to immortalize yourself, I could always tattoo your face--"

"I will not have my immortal face stuck on someone's arm!"

"Not in my house!" Helen snapped, feeling her grumpiness returning full-force. "I've told you a thousand times, Nigel. No tattooing people in my house. Too much clean-up."

"Says the painter with the portable kiln to the tattoo artist who doesn't even have his equipment here," James pointed out, his grin slowly forming. Helen felt her annoyance double. They were all making fun of her.

"I don't know why I let you all in here every year, every month."

"Because every summer I simply must drop by to ensure that you haven't decided to destroy my little kiln," Nikola reminded her with a shrug, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "I left that here for a reason."

"Yes, so you could invade my house every year," she accused.

Nikola huffed out a breath, clearly offended. As offended as he had been about anything that night. 

"Like old times, Helen," Nigel added, still grinning. 

Helen's sulk deepened.

"Or perhaps, it is because we all want to ensure that a certain someone does not return," James pointed out calmly, quietly. 

As if on cue, Ranna entered the kitchen then, placing a small prescription bottle on the counter. "I found this by the couch, Helen. I thought you might want it."

Snatching the bottle up, Helen tried to brush past James so she could stash the sedative back on the shelf. Of course, it wasn't that easy. He stopped her, sliding smoothly in front of the doors to the other pantry by the stove. "James, please. I'm tired."

"You've been taking this again?"

Helen wasn't even aware of someone else taking her kettle off the stove and pouring her tea, but somewhere along the line, that had happened. Her tea cup had been filled by the time she gave up fighting James and returned to her place by the counter. She stared down at the gray and white marble surface, as though her house might hold the answers to the life that was falling apart around her. 

"I haven't been sleeping well and... John stopped by. Yesterday."

She didn't need to look to know that Nikola's face would be twisted in anger, James' brow furrowed with concern, Nigel's nose wrinkled, and Ranna's eyes narrowed. No one liked her husband, not even the senator, who knew him only in a professional sense.

"The hell did he want?" 

Nikola voiced the question Helen could practically feel burning in the air. Like fire, the cold kind of fire that churned within her every time she thought about John. Her thoughts made her sick. His visits made her sick. This topic of conversation made her sick. 

"I don't know," she lied, finally pushing away and moving off to the other side of the kitchen. "I don't want to--"

"Helen?"

She turned at the sound of her name. "--talk about-- AH!"

Helen's first instinct was always to protect herself. She threw her hands up at the sudden _thing_ in front of her face, threatening her personal space. This did nothing to prevent the weapon of assault from painting her -- blue, from the looks of the color flashing by her eyes -- and so she did not escape with hands that remained their natural color. 

"Nikola!"

"You were getting too serious. Such a waste."

"The real waste is how you're wasting my paint--!"

This time he managed to dart between her hands. Rather than continue as he had, Nikola managed to dab both cheeks and then her nose. For a few seconds, she was too startled to protest.

"He has a point, Helen," James agreed, handing her the cup of tea she had been steeping. She didn't fail to notice that the tea bag had been removed. Apparently, James was taking care of her that night. As he always did. 

"If you've got so much energy, go sculpt something!" she huffed, although with everyone's easy laughter, she felt less uptight than she previously had. After John's visit yesterday, she had thought she would invite everyone over. Just to keep herself occupied from all the weirdness happening. She had planned on them all getting drunk; she hadn't planned on an impromptu art session.

"Mmmm and miss looking at the lovely sculpting job on your face? No thanks."

James and Nigel both rolled their eyes.

"Say that again and I'm immortalizing your face on the inside of your--"

"Nigel," James interrupted, managing to sound both like a lecturing parent and a scandalized old man, "think of the innocent ears in this room."

Helen snorted into her tea cup. "Innocent? With you lot? Oh, please. You haven't been innocent since before our combined project for that Expressive Art class. _No one_ needed to see what that sculpture had tattooed on it."

Nigel grinned impishly. 

"I don't think I want to know," Ranna commented faintly. Helen had honestly forgotten she was there. 

"Oh, but the story is something to hear--"

" _Not. Here._ " 

Honestly, someday the four college friends would rip each other's heads off. Some days, Helen was surprised it hadn't happened already. 

" _You_. Need to paint," Nikola insisted, brandishing the brush he had commandeered at her. She snatched it back.

"At 2:30 in the morning?"

"Why not?" James questioned. "You are already awake."

"We all are," Nigel agreed. "Unless this is some crazy shared dream and if it is, I'm never drinking with any of you again."

"Oh _that's_ how to get you out of my house. Thank you so much. I'll remember tha-- Stop painting me!"

"No." Nikola's impish smirk was always both endearing and infuriating. "It's either you or the canvas."

Finally recognizing that she really didn't have a choice, Helen darted around Nikola's assault and headed for her easel. The others took up positions around her and even though Ranna didn't have much to do with art, she couldn't sleep either. So James patted the couch beside him and showed her the beginnings of his projects. 

And so, a painter, a sculptor, a digital artist, and a tattoo artist all took turns telling a former politician all about their Expressive Art class and how Nigel almost got them all kicked out. Nikola would later call it showing off for political favor.

Personally, Helen knew he was always the show-off of their group and that was okay. Between the five of them, Helen found herself more distracted from her thoughts than she could have hoped for. Of course, this didn't come without consequences, as none of them really got much done and more of Helen's house ended up painted than her canvas after Nikola stole another of her brushes and played sword fight with Ranna. All-in-all, it could have been worse. At least they would look back upon it as fondly as possible.

They _were_ all drunk, after all.


	2. If I Was A Sculptor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: _Your Song_ by Elton John

The first thing to cross her mind as the doorbell startled her out of yet another nap was that she hoped to God there would be neither a politician, a lawyer, nor shortbread waiting for her. 

Her body ached. This time it was not a hangover, though she couldn't quite pinpoint what it was or what had done it. It was though her very soul had been struck somehow. She blamed John, even though she hadn't seen him since his last visit, as she did with most everything these days. It was easier to hate him for everything than for just breaking her heart and self into tiny pieces that crumbled under the weight of memories with each passing day. Sometimes she expected to just fall apart literally, waste away until nothing was left but her paintings and whatever dusty coating her shattered self might leave behind. 

The doorbell made her start again and one hand flew to her chest, as though to protect her heart as it stomped painfully through her body. 

"Come on, Helen. I know you're in there. I can see your head on the couch. Don't even try to pretend."

Well, on a positive note, at least the voice belonged to none of the three options she had feared. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to settle her nerves again. At this rate, she was going to hit that anxiety prescription to keep herself calm before she shattered herself into tiny pieces and swept them away with the dirt on Henry's paws. Finally pushing herself to her feet, she turned to open the door and fix her guest with a weary sigh.

"What do you--"

"Where did the little bastard hide it?" Nikola snarled, pushing past her like she wasn't even there. 

Helen shut the door before Henry could escape, turning on her heel to see what the hell her colleague was talking about. "Who hid what, Nikola?" she asked with no small amount of frustration. 

"My bottle. It was a vintage. I had it last time I was here, when I thought we might have some time alone, but Nigel picked it up and stuck it in here, the little--"

"It's on the counter," Helen sighed, pointing to the pristine wine bottle standing perfectly still next to her tea set.

Nikola's face clouded. "Oh, so not only does he steal my wine and give it to you, but he spoils the surprise. Next time I see him, it'll be a mound of soft clay meeting his face and may he never again smell anything else." 

Helen's world-weariness turned to confusion as she took a few steps into the kitchen. "Surprise? What surprise?"

Nikola raised his hands in mock surrender before placing them on his hips, huffing out a breath of irritation that she could tell was half-faked. What was his game? "I wanted to ask you to open the bottle with me, but now I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

She eyed him. "Just the two of us? No games, no one crashing the party? No..." She tried to come up with something else horrible and only ended with, "Shortbread?"

He turned to look at her like she had just offended him in the worst way possible. "Shortbread? What do I look like, a dietitian?"

She managed to snort out half a laugh at the very idea. "Hardly. My neighbor brought me shortbread once. Scottish shortbread. Apparently, she hasn't learned to tell the difference between an English woman and a Scottish woman."

"You." He brandished his finger at her, as though the entire thing was entirely her fault. "Need better neighbors."

"Amen," she agreed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. 

Huffing out another, " _Shortbread_ ," Nikola picked up two glasses in one hand -- he really had been here too many times since she moved in if he knew exactly where her wine glasses were without asking -- and the bottle in the other, bringing them over to the new couch. Setting the glasses on the table at one end, he poured them both a generous amount. With the bottle on the table and their glasses in hand, he settled into the couch, pushing back on it until his section shifted back. Lying down really did have an appeal, she supposed. After only a moment's hesitation, a moment he took full advantage of by patting the seat next to him and grinning lewdly at her, she joined him.

They spoke of nothing and yet everything while watching the most random shows that night. Helen would take no note of how everything played out until the morning, when she awoke to realize that she had not gone to bed that night. In fact, she had managed to fall asleep curled up next to Nikola with her head on his chest and his arm around her. Somewhere along the line, she decided she didn't care. As long as John didn't decide to turn up, she couldn't care less. 

No doorbells, politicians, lawyers, or shortbread would startle her out of this moment's respite.


	3. Interior Designs

Tears streaked her cheeks as James let himself into her house.

Helen never was much of one to be touched or held these days -- that time was long past -- but that rarely stopped James from trying. She had learned to expect it of him and react accordingly. He would get one small, brief hug from her before she would push him away and place a table or chair or counter between them for space. For her own personal comfort.

Decades had passed since she had allowed him to hold her for any length of time. Decades had been and gone since she was a kindly young woman who had no more cares than what she would paint next and whether or not her fiance would return home in time for dinner. And now she shed tears for those lost decades, time she would never get back, time in which she had slowly lost herself. 

"Helen? What happened?"

The touch to her elbow made her flinch and she pulled sharply away, moving to the kitchen where she could place the counter between herself and the rest of the house. It was a protective move she had perfected at the other house, before she moved out of John's life. James likely knew it by now; as close as they were, she never did quite spill as much of her problems to him as he did his to her.

"Did John drop by again?"

Helen shook her head, her fingers digging into the marble surface as she tried to catch her breath. It was a futile endeavor; more tears simply clouded her throat, sticking in her chest, and becoming a cohesive _mess_ that prevented her from properly inhaling. 

"He wants to see me. To stop by. In five days."

James pushed forward, encroaching on her space again. Fortunately, his concern did not outweigh his gentlemanly nature; as soon as she stepped back, he stopped, concern etched across his face. Normally, she could tolerate his presence and his need to be tactile. The fact that she wasn't even allowing him the briefest of touches was a red flag to him, she knew.

"Why? Are you all right?"

She wasn't and they both knew it, but he wouldn't be James if he didn't ask. "I'll be fine, James. No need to trouble yourself--"

"No need to trouble myself for my best friend's well-being?" he finished for her, annoyance rimming his concerned tone. "Come now, Helen. You know me better than that." 

She was crumbling again; she could feel it as readily as the hand on her arm that she couldn't quite shake. Her lower lip trembled.

"Why does he want to see you, Helen?"

Her head shook in answer, the only answer she could manage before the tears began to carve wet paths across her cheeks and down her chin. Dropping to her sweater, they dampened the cloth until James pressed a handkerchief to her face and wrapped his arms around her. Helen barely dared to shift, deciding that losing the handkerchief would be preferable to trying to figure out what to do with her hands. James always had been her rock, her support system, and even though he drove her crazy sometimes with his tactile nature, she treasured his friendship.

They were, after all, best friends and as long as she could cry into his shoulder over John's latest threat or vague commentary, she thought that, perhaps, she might survive.

After she shattered into tiny shards and her tears soaked James' shirt. He didn't seem to mind. Lucky Helen.

"I don't know why he wants to see me," she finally choked out. "The last time we met, he refused to grant me the divorce. What else could he possibly want?" 

Really, there was nothing at all left of her that he could take, barely anything else that could break that hadn't already. 

"I am so, _so_ tired, James. I just want it to end."

For a few moments, they stayed there, James rubbing her back while she unfolded enough to twine her fingers around the lapels of his jacket, both to hold him there and keep him away. She truly was so very tired. If she could just sleep it all away, she would be happy.

... _Happy_.

She was supposed to be happily married. Happy. A failed life because she wasn't happy.

Snarling, she placed her hands flat against James and pushed, thrusting herself violently away and to the other side of the kitchen, the knuckles of one hand pressed to her mouth. James seemed to realize that he had stumbled onto a very bad day and at least had the good sense not to follow her this time. 

"I'll go talk to him. Tomorrow. Perhaps I can convince him to stop being so bloody stupid."

It was rare that James resorted to oaths and insults and Helen was well aware of what it meant that he had used both, but she couldn't bring herself to care overmuch. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched James leave the house and walk out to his car. She didn't even have the energy to ask him to leave John alone for fear that he would make the visit even worse. Instead, all she could do was stand there and fight the feeling that she was drowning. Something had her in its vice-like grip and she couldn't breathe at all.

Moving to her cabinet, she brought out the prescription bottle again and downed one of the pills with a practiced ease. Perhaps now she could at least get some semblance of rest.

Even if tears would streak her cheeks for the next five days.


	4. A Guest In His Own Home

James could see her look up through the window as he shut the door to his car. 

It was adorable in its own way, how she had draped herself in his living room. She had seemingly either fallen asleep on his couch or just camped out there with the TV on until his return. Pushing open the door told him that she had camped out with the TV turned onto some sort of soap. He paused in the doorway, his nose wrinkled to show his distaste, and then moved inside, shutting the door softly behind him. 

“I thought you might have forgotten about me,” Ranna murmured hesitantly, one of her arms holding the weight of her chin against the arm of the chair as the other hand trailed gentle fingers across Declan’s head. The large dog seemed to like her; he had taken to her immediately, from the moment James brought her home, and James appreciated that. Alistair took slightly more time, if only to work out that she wasn’t taking any of them away. With both dogs approving of his lady guest, James couldn’t help the soft way his lips curled upwards at the sight, almost secretively enjoying what he could see of them. 

Somewhere along the line, between having met Ranna at Helen’s the night they all got drunk and deciding to bring her home, James had fallen for her. Harder than anyone else in his life. It was strange to imagine, but he cared very deeply for her. Like anyone else, he knew of the scandal, of course; however, he found it very difficult to imagine a woman such as Ranna being capable of slandering everyone she worked for and then selling blackmail on them to get her position. Now, Fallon, her assistant? That one he could see easily. But not Ranna. That was why he had decided to relieve Helen of her duty. He knew Helen preferred her silence and her space, while he actually did not mind having a guest for a time. 

Perhaps one day she would cease to be a guest.

“I invited you into my home,” he reminded her, pushing those thoughts away as he hung his coat and hat by the door. “I would never forget about you. Helen and I simply had a lot to discuss.”

“About your relationship?” Ranna questioned amiably, obviously attempting to keep herself calm and even. James could tell that she was tense; he was good at reading people, though he never had much used the skill. But he found himself analyzing Ranna's state and wondering at it. Why was she tense in asking that question? 

“No,” he corrected gently as he moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. Ranna seemed to prefer that to the coffee he sometimes drank. Perhaps he would begin to join her on that. “About her husband, John Druitt. The man is a menace to society. One day, he’s going to take up carving and I doubt it will be wood.”

Pausing with the cabinet half-open, he frowned to consider those words. Helen had once said a few days ago that she was beginning to say and do and think things she had not previously, as though something were surfacing within her psyche. Perhaps the same was now happening to James. 

“She is simply my university friend, my best university friend, the one to whom I tell everything,” he finished, pulling out a tea bag and placing it into a tea pot before setting out two cups. “Come now, Ranna. You need a cup of tea.”

His guest hesitated again before unfolding herself gracefully from the couch. She had told him that she had once taken ballet in France and so her balance had always been fairly good. Not much could unseat her and he found that quite attractive and beautiful as well. 

“Just a friend?” she questioned, moving to lean against the counter as they waited for the tea. “You wouldn’t want to… be anything more?”

Was she asking what he thought she was asking? His eyebrows slid upwards. 

“With Helen?” What an odd question to ask. “No, never. I have never even considered it and she has never exactly seen me in that light. She changed, you know, after she married Druitt. She and I... we would never be able to tolerate each other for an extended period, let alone live together." A small smile curled the edges of his lips as he passed Ranna one of the tea cups. "She and I would never make it, believe me. What she needs is someone who can follow her and force her into relaxing, not coddle her and treat her like a princess. Nikola fills that role much better than I, as you have already seen."

James always did like to treat his friends as well as possible and Helen was a special case for all of them. However, he had been honest with Ranna in saying that Helen was nothing more than his best friend. That was, and always would be, the way of things. 

"Besides..." Here he offered her a very gentle, yet warm smile, one that was very obviously just for her. Given her question, he felt he may as well go in and show her his full hand. "That would make it very difficult for me to court _you_ , now wouldn't it?"

Her lips parted in surprise as the tea kettle began to sing and he let his smile linger just one moment longer before he moved to tend it. 

“Why are you doing all this for me?” she asked quietly, with no small amount of confusion. “You have to know of the scandal.”

“Of course I do,” he scoffed, as though offended that she would imagine he hadn’t found out the second it had happened. “And I don’t believe for a second that you had anything to do with what they accused you of doing. No, it is my belief that someone set you up to take the fall so that they could rise above you. Depose you and take your place. Am I right?”

Of course he was. He was rarely wrong about such things.

The answer was echoed in her eyes as he moved the kettle back to a cool place on the stove. When he returned to the counter, he found her watching him with more emotion swimming in her brown depths than he had ever seen from her previously. A part of him wanted to hug her, hold her close, and reassure her that all was well. However, he knew better; she had the same air about her that Helen often did, the kind that clearly said she did not wish to be handled at all. So he respected her unspoken wish and remained on the other side of the counter.

“Thank you,” Ranna murmured after a few minutes had passed. 

James figured that was as good a start as any.

“I find it… difficult to trust after what Fallon did.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting just so as he pieced things together like he was working on one of his digital pieces. 

“Was she the catalyst?”

“The catalyst, the instigator, the one who carried the whole thing out. She was also… my lover. I cared for her as deeply as I do you. And that… that frightens me.”

“Ranna…” James paused for a moment, searching for words that would not sound hollow to either of their ears. “I think perhaps you should speak with Helen. Soon. Perhaps the two of you can ease each other’s minds.”

If Fallon truly had been Ranna’s lover before she backstabbed her, then Ranna and Helen both could do with a talk together. Lovers betraying lovers. James shook his head as he poured tea into Ranna’s cup. Honestly, it was just like that soap he could still hear playing in the background and the whole thing made his blood boil. 

_My life is a sitcom_ , he thought as he poured his own cup and moved to keep his guest company for the remainder of the night. She clearly needed company, someone to slowly show her that the world was not going to eat her, and he vowed to do everything he could to help her with that. Even if it meant watching that horrible soap.


	5. Ink and Paint

"For God's sake, stop fidgeting!" 

Some day Nigel was going to squirm his way right off that chair and Helen would have the best laugh she'd had in decades. Either that or she would sit there huffing in frustration and wondering why she deigned to deal with anybody these days, let alone her university colleagues. If she didn't know any better, she might think they were taking turns bothering her this week. First Nikola, then James, and now... Nigel? Almost like clockwork.

Very _annoying_ clockwork.

"I just want to see it," Nigel replied, sounding almost like a whiny child.

"I can't paint the design on your arm if you're going to fidget every bloody second," she snapped, leaning closer to her canvas so she could ignore Nigel for a few seconds. "You'll see it when I've finished."

"I don't sit still well. You know that."

"You will or I'll sedate you." 

Nigel raised an eyebrow as she paused; they both were slightly confused by _that_ reference. More strangeness to add to her already strange life. Wonderful. Helen huffed out a soft breath as she touched her brush to the canvas with a few more even strokes. Honestly, she was so tired of everything. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? The strange thoughts and words never came up unless she was speaking with someone. When left to herself, she never had to worry about it. Something in her companions kept drawing it all out, frustratingly easily. 

"You don't even have a tranq gun or a needle," Nigel retorted, calling her out as though she had been bluffing him. 

Helen rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore what he was implying. "I have plenty I can hit you over the head with."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Nikola was right. You have turned cruel."

It was Helen's turn to raise an eyebrow as she glanced sidelong at her university friend, incredulous at his implication. "When have I ever been cruel to him?"

She should have known it was a trick. Nigel could never keep the smirk off his face and that was her first clue. "He said you stole a bottle of wine from him and left it sitting out. You could have at least set it in a good storage container."

"It was a bottle of wine, not a pet," she huffed, rolling her eyes again as Nigel shifted to wave a hand. "Hold still."

"It may as well have been a pet to Nikola."

She hated how right he was, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Instead, she reached to turn him back towards her, so she could see his arm easier. "He needs a better hobby. Next thing we know, he'll be naming his drinks."

"I thought he already did that."

"Nigel, please stop moving. You're making this very difficult."

"You're talking to me."

"Should I stop?"

"No. You're more pleasant to listen to than James or Nikola."

Helen noticed very keenly that no one mentioned John except James lately. She suspected that had to do with everyone's anger and hurt at his betrayal and treatment of her, but it would be nice if they would stop treating her as though she really were going to shatter into pieces at the drop of a hat. Honestly, she'd survived this long with people mentioning John; she could survive a while longer. 

"I am not. Stop moving."

"Stop moving? Or stop talking?"

"Are they intertwined?"

"Most likely."

With a huff of utter frustration, Helen finally gave up trying to keep Nigel in line. They'd been doing this back-and-forth for over an hour and she was sick of it. Deciding she had nothing to lose at all and in a fit of semi-desperation, she finally placed her hands against his shoulders and gave him a shove. As expected, he tumbled straight off the chair and onto the floor, giving her the best laugh she'd had in decades. Arms wrapped around her and doubled over, she laughed until she cried and then coughed the tears out of her system. Everything hurt again, but somehow she suspected this was a good thing. How she felt in the morning could argue the case either way, but she wouldn't complain right now.

On the plus side, she thought as Nigel scrambled to untangle himself from the blanket he'd fallen on, at least it got him to stop fidgeting.


	6. Take away a speck of hope, destroying every dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "House Guest" by RKL

"Open up, John. I know you're in there."

James did his best to hold himself in check. While he did not feel as strongly towards Helen as Nikola did nor as John once had, he did still care for her. She was his best friend, the one person he could trust with anything. The fact of the matter was that she deserved better than the hand that life had dealt her, that _John_ had so carelessly thrown away in her face. Leaning against the frame of the door with one arm, the other occupied with holding his phone to his ear, he rolled his eyes to the sky. Certainly, all six of them could act like children when they wanted to, even broken Helen and quiet Ranna, but honestly John had always been the worst of them. 

Perhaps that was why he had not been able to stomach life with Helen after he changed her. 

The sight of John finally pulling open the door brought James lurching out of his thoughts. Clicking his phone to cancel the call, he pushed slowly away from the door frame, eyeing John to see what kind of mood the man was in. John always was tricky to read, tricky to figure out; however, all of them knew how quickly he could change and how dangerous he could be if pressed. James was far from intimidated, despite the man's size. He knew John, knew his ticks, what buttons to press and how hard. Right now, judging from the look of things, James knew he had time before John decided he did not wish to be disturbed. Not much, perhaps, but time was time and James would use every second.

"We need to talk," he said calmly, in a familiar tone that brooked no argument, not even from John. 

"I don't suppose you'll be leaving until we do."

"No." 

At least John had the decency to remember that. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes worthy of a petulant five-year-old, John finally stepped back, opening the door to his one-time friend. James moved inside, careful never to turn his back so Druitt would never have a clear shot. Not that James expected a physical confrontation, but when dealing with a potential threat, he always liked to keep it in sight. 

"What is this about, James? I'm in a hurry."

"You seemed to be taking your time getting to the door."

John's expression shifted just slightly, irritation filing into his eyes like a line of ants. James switched tactics at lightning speed, surrendering that one to another that might help him pry.

"We need to talk about Helen."

John rolled his eyes yet again, moving further into his living quarters. James had only been here a handful of times, but each time he was struck by the sheer _size_ of it. John and Helen had each moved into new houses when he finally left her, as though they were separating themselves in every possible way. Helen's home was smaller, much smaller, just barely big enough for her and her painting supplies, while John's was massive, big enough for an entire party. It was almost as though he had wanted a place for her to return to, somewhere she would have her own space within his, where he could watch her at all hours and be certain that she was--

James' face contorted with the thoughts turning around in his head and he thanked God or whatever else that John had his back turned. By the time John stopped in front of his massive couch in the middle of the room -- the middle, noticeably, not the edge where James had stopped, because John always had to be the front and center of everything -- James had managed to school his features back into the calm and aloof expression he liked to wear around John. This was his mask, the way he kept himself separate from his emotions. Occasionally, it worked for an extended length of time; he could only hope it would work for the duration of his stay today.

"Why are you here to talk about Helen, James?" 

He sounded aloof and uncaring, but James knew better. By now he knew well when the lion was waking up. 

James weighed his words carefully. "Because. She is a friend and I need to know that she will be all right."

"She will be."

"But she is not currently."

"I will return to her and then she will be taken care of."

James had to work hard to keep his budding anger off his face. John's little _delusion_ had gone far enough.

"She hates you, John. You _left_ her. Once upon a time, you loved her more than life itself, but that has all changed, hasn't it?"

John didn't deny the accusation immediately, which only confirmed James' suspicions and turned his blood to an indignant fire. 

"I suppose I got caught up in my work."

James stared at him with such distaste that he thought he might actually be violently ill. Instead, he strode the last few steps forward, lifting a fist in what turned out to be a surprise attack to John. A second or two later, James' knuckles had connected with John's nose, leaving behind a sharp ache in his entire hand. A fleck of blood flew off across the room as John's head reeled back. He immediately clamped a hand over his nose to prevent the injury from bleeding too much. James rather thought it was poetic in its own way and used the moment as a catalyst for what he wanted to say.

"Enough to abandon your _wife_?" he spat out. "You lost sight of what mattered, John. She chose you and you nearly destroyed her. Now you pull her along at the edge of a leash, sometimes letting it loose enough that she dangles from it and then nearly strangles herself with the ‘what ifs.’ The emotional state she's in now is so fragile you could shatter her with a breath. You have to know how much you hurt her."

"Oh?" Somehow, through all of that and the blood still flowing beneath his hand, John managed to keep his aloof tone. James knew it was only an act, however. "Have you become her knight in shining armor, James? Do you wish to bed her if you get me to release my claim on her?"

The look of distaste returned, James' nose wrinkling as his face contorted. "She is my best friend, if you will recall. I cannot exactly be best mates with a psychotic lawyer, now can I?"

John huffed out a derisive laugh, but otherwise made no reaction, hand still clamped over his nose to stem the flow of blood. James rather thought he deserved it.

"You have no claim on her, John. Just a deluded mind intent on keeping hold of something that died long ago."

"It did not die, James. I love her."

Typical John. Deluded and remaining forever in denial. The urge to put his fist through John's face scratched its way back up, but James managed to beat it back this time.

"She no longer loves you. She is sick to death of you and everything you represent. You lost her a long time ago. You're just too bloody stupid to realize it."

That was the second time he had sworn like that over John. His former friend's eyes narrowed, actual concern coloring his features this time.

"You believe this is my fault?"

"I know it is your fault. You changed her, tormented her. If you truly love her, you will let her go. Let the past rest, John. You have already shown the world that you care more for your career than your wife. At least have the decency to let her get on with a life that might actually make her happy."

John's frown deepened. "I promised to love her for all eternity."

Something in James softened and his tone curbed to match. "And you can. But sometimes loving means letting go." James sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief second. "Our university days are over. Nothing will ever be the same. But the world is what we made of it. Perhaps… it is time for _all_ of us to lay the past to rest."

If that didn't get the point through Druitt's thick skull, James didn't know what would. His hand still ached and stung, but he thought the pain was rather worth it. Giving John one last look, a less disgusted one than just tired and world-weary, James turned to head back for the door.

"Good-bye, John."

"James…"

James paused at the door, one hand on the edge as he propped it open. "Open your eyes, John. We all know what’s inside." And then he was gone, choosing to take his chances with the storm brewing outside rather than the one inside that large and yet claustrophobic house.


	7. Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm all right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: "Echo" by Jason Walker

"You wouldn't happen to have a spare cup of tea, would you?"

Helen was beginning to suspect that something was up given the sheer number of visitors she had dealt with lately. She could barely recall the last time she had even one, let alone a whole houseful. And then each one seemed to want a piece of her attention, some part of her life. She supposed she could understand it of her university friends; the puzzling part was Ranna's sudden reappearance.

Helen considered telling her no and to come back, but she knew James would find out and then she would never hear the end of it. So rather than risk that, she stepped back from the door, offering entrance into her home once again and inwardly mourning the peace that had just been shattered. Making her way into the kitchen, Helen placed the kettle on to boil the water. 

"I'm sorry, Helen. I did sort of just... drop myself into your lap again."

Helen managed to wave away the apology, though she didn't look up from her work at setting out tea cups and tea bags. She might have been utterly confused by everyone's sudden interest in her, but some part of her... did not actually mind it. Some part of her was quite tired of being alone. 

"I always have a spare cup of tea on hand," she replied, even as she realized that this was not always the case. Tea had not been her drink of choice in a long time. This was the most she had made tea in decades and it felt _good_ , right, like some part of her life had clicked back into place. She was beginning to feel like perhaps she actually did belong in her own skin. 

There was, however, still the needling feeling that Ranna was here for more than just the tea. Helen wasn't really in the mood to pry, so she simply let the silence hang heavily over them.

"James said he had an errand to run today," Ranna spoke up after a while, clearly trying to close some of that long expanse between them. 

Helen sighed, wanting nothing more than to have her silence and peace return. "Why are you here?"

That seemed to startle Ranna from her thoughts. "Excuse me?"

"I know you're here for more than just the tea." 

Ranna shifted, leaning her weight against the counter as she studied the tea cups Helen had set out. "Because James told me that you and I might have something in common, that perhaps we could help each other."

Helen had literally no idea what she meant by that and the frown of confusion said all she could have with words. Ranna glanced up through her eyelashes and then sighed herself, wearily.

"Fallon gifted me with a tea set once," Ranna offered, her fingers drifting across the cups. 

Helen found herself wondering what this had to do with anything at all. Rather than ask and break the spell or whatever Ranna thought had fallen, Helen let her talk. Maybe that would get her to leave faster.

"I loved her. She shared my entire life and then she betrayed me. Deposed me, ruined my name and everything I had once stood for so she could take my place." Ranna shook her head, her attention taken by the bottle of wine still standing by the edge of the counter. It was empty. 

Helen's gaze was drawn to the bottle as well, her mind turning over a few pieces of her own life, the similarities James must have seen between them. She knew of the scandal, of course -- who didn't? -- but she had never actually given the situation much thought. Politics always seemed too close to lawyers and law enforcement, something Helen had sworn off when she left John and began to apply for divorce proceedings. Now that she considered things...

A sharp, shrill whistle pulled her out of her thoughts with a jolt. Turning, she glared at the kettle, as though her entire life was the fault of an inanimate object that was currently singing to her, before she made her way to pour water into the two cups. Returning the kettle to a cold eye on the stove top, Helen noticed that Ranna had not yet managed to pull her attention away from the empty wine bottle. 

"Nikola left that," Helen offered vaguely. "We drank it the other night."

"Do you care for him?" Ranna questioned suddenly, making Helen freeze. 

"I beg your pardon?" Helen could feel her fear bubbling up inside her. The idea of caring for anyone at all after John frightened her almost to death. She didn't want to become attached again, didn't want to worry about anything other than herself, her cat, and her paintings.

Ranna shrugged, as though this were a simple question with a simple answer. "James told me he was trying to court me. I wondered if anyone had begun to fight for your affections."

Helen's frown deepened. "John has yet to let me go," she pointed out softly, but firmly. "Until he does, it's a moot point either way."

She had to admit, the idea had flashed past her mind a time or two. What she would do if Nikola really _were_ trying to court her. A part of her had thought that perhaps James might, but now she knew that he was after Ranna. Good for both of them. They would be good for each other. He could help heal Ranna's injured psyche. There wasn't much to be done about Helen's. 

"It's frightening, isn't it?" Ranna spoke softly, startling Helen with how much her words echoed her thoughts. "Frightening how someone can worm their way into your thoughts and mind, how you let them in and come to expect them to be there. And then one day, you find that they've ripped right through you and left a bloody patch that you don't know what to do with."

"And you feel like you're drowning in it," Helen agreed slowly. "Sometimes I don't know what to do, how to feel. I think someone might be choking me, strangling me one minute... and then it's gone. But I still feel lost, afraid."

Ranna's eyes showed compassion and understanding as she finally looked back to Helen. "You always wondered what changed about the first one, what made them start to think that you were no longer worth the effort."

"Yes," Helen breathed. "Exactly."

"And then you realize that it wasn't you at all. It was the other, the person who was supposed to protect your heart. So you wonder if this next one will be just as bad."

Helen's fingers curled over the edge of the marble counter, digging into the gray-white surface until she thought she might break something. This was hitting far too close to the truth for her comfort. Somehow, it was as though Ranna understood what she was feeling and experiencing. Like they really did have a lot in common. Perhaps James was right.

What was she saying? James was always right.

"But is it really worth holding yourself back? Shouldn't we... try to make something happy with our lives?"

There was that word again. 

Helen gave her head a shake. She didn't know; she was having a hard enough time trying to deal with memories of John and what he was doing lately. The back and forth was giving her emotional whiplash. She was tired of it; that was why she wanted it to end. It had nothing to do with worrying about Nikola or how she felt about him.

Just. Tired.

Ranna seemed to realize that Helen wasn't much up for conversation that day and so she finally just pursed her lips and turned away, letting herself back out of the house. Helen's mind was too full of thoughts, most of them what she might say to Nikola should he ever drop by again. She knew he would. He always did. Nikola strayed near her house all the time and let himself in whenever he pleased. Finding him passed out on her sofa had never been a rare occurrence. What was strange was how she felt about it.

When she imagined him _not_ doing that, she felt very _wrong_. Things just weren't the same if Nikola wasn't there.

Ranna had long since departed by the time Helen finally turned back around and spotted the tea cups. She had completely forgotten about them. Taking one tea cup in hand, she moved to the sofa again to curl up and let her mind wander around as it liked to do. Apparently, Ranna truly hadn't come for the tea. Perhaps someday, Helen would be able to talk to her about such a subject. Perhaps someday, she could talk to herself about it.

After all, it seemed she always had a spare cup of tea on hand.


	8. What’s now weak, pathetic, and sad was once a human being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: "House Guest" by RKL

One of these days, she was just going to take that doorbell out entirely.

Honestly, it had been ringing incessantly all bloody week. She was sick to death of it, tired of hearing its near-constant whine, tired of the visitors, tired of the _talking_. When had everyone gotten together and decided she was the one to go bother? All she had ever wanted was to be left alone. Was that really so much to ask? 

She found herself hoping yet again that whoever it was at the door didn't have any shortbread; she was tired of that, too. 

When she finally pulled herself away from her couch, depositing Henry as gently as she could on the floor, she found herself almost wishing the person she could see through the clear pane of her front door was Abby. The reality was far worse. Helen was not ready for this, even if they had planned it out in advance. Or rather, the request had been made and she had been given no choice. As usual. Steeling herself, her jaw setting so she might at least show more strength than she ever felt these days, she finally moved to the entryway, pulling the door open and staring down the occupant as though this were an infringement on her entire life and not just her day. It may as well have been.

Although, she was more than slightly startled by the sight of his face. A clean white bandage crossed his nose, as though to hold it in place. "What happened to you?" she asked, unable to hold back the note of surprise to her voice.

John's smile was almost soft, almost like what he used to give her. "It would seem that James rather thought you were worth breaking my nose over."

James? So he had gone to see John. And now John was here. The flash of gratitude and fondness for her best friend died a quick and painful death as Helen steeled herself against her lingering fear. John might be here on an act of vengeance more than whatever else he'd had in mind.

"What do you want, John?"

"May I come in?"

If she didn't know him better, she would be tempted to say that he looked almost apologetic, _sorry_ for something, and that confused her far worse than anything else in the last few weeks. Knowing that they had already planned to have some sort of talk today -- she still wasn't sure what about and that made her nervous -- and that he would likely just push past her if she said no, she stood back. Striding forward, John brushed past into the main room of her house. Helen took a minute to close her eyes and breathe deeply as she shut the door with a soft click. The minute passed and she turned to take her normal position between the sink and the counter in the kitchen. This was the only place where she actually felt safe. Oddly enough, it was where she was backed into a corner. 

"What do you want?" she repeated, leaning her weight on the counter as she liked to do, her voice hard, as though she could shove John out by sheer force of will alone. It was never that easy, but she could hope.

John seemed to want to take his time today, a fact that continually frustrated Helen. Everything was always done on his terms, never on hers, and so she usually spent their meetings on pins and needles, feeling as though she could do nothing right. No matter what she did or said, he always had something to combat it with. 

His terms, never hers. Her life still belonged to him.

Her lower lip trembled again and she gazed pointedly at the counter as she struggled to hold herself together. 

She could practically sense John's shift, even though she couldn't see him. A packet of papers slid into view, his hand lingering on the edge before he withdrew. For a long while, she hesitated, the memory of the last paper he had given her clear in her mind's eye. Last time, he had shown her that he would be leaving his office, starting a private practice with more free time to devote to other things. To her. 

As though he had expected her to run back into his arms after _he_ had _left her_ in such a crystalline state that she was honestly surprised she didn't shatter on a daily basis. Sometimes, she could practically feel the glass biting into her skin, pinpricks or sharp slices, depending on the day. It was a wonder she couldn't see the blood flowing with her tears. 

"Open it."

She barely glanced up at him, her face twisted with a combination of anger, pain, and fear. The urge to refuse him bubbled up within her, but she pushed it back. Doing so would only make things worse and whatever calm he had now would be lost. Shifting her weight, she snatched at the packet, pulling it closer before she unfolded it slowly, still watching him for any sign that this was a trap. She would not be surprised if it were. 

As her hands smoothed the papers, her gaze was finally drawn to the contents of the large stack. Her brow furrowed further and further the longer she read, until she finally snapped her head up to stare at him. "This..."

It couldn't be.

"They're our divorce papers."

Could it?

"And you will find that I have already signed all of them."

It seemed almost too good to be true. Years of living with him, knowing how he was now, made her wary. The whole thing felt like a trap, like he was trying to trick her so he could hold her hostage for all eternity. Where was the catch? Something had to be wrong. Either he was sick or she was walking right into his plans--

He must have seen the way her thoughts raced across her face, for he added on, "There is no catch, Helen. I have added nothing that you did not already sign off on. I merely wanted to show you that I am giving into your wishes. After this, I will no longer trouble you."

Giving into her wishes? Manipulative to the last. 

"But you're still leaving the practice, aren't you?" she asked quietly, trying to see just how much freedom she actually had. 

"Yes. I will still have my own office and enough free time, but I will not... I will not trouble you. I wanted to let you live freely."

She still didn't trust it. "Why? Last we met, you wanted to keep me close. What changed your mind?"

"James' fist."

It was a mark of how far they had grown apart that she could no longer tell whether that was a joke or a serious remark. 

"You won't go back on this? You'll leave me alone? No more... visits at odd hours? Or calls?"

"No calls, no visits, no texts, no emails. You, of course, may contact me if you so choose and if we happen to run into each other in the world, then that will take its own course." 

She supposed she should feel grateful, but all she could conjure up was bitterness. Instead of allowing herself to dwell too much on all of that, she pushed the papers back at him and took a breath to steady herself, still holding back the tears burning at her eyes. 

"Thank you." It felt like bile in her throat, but still she let the words fall. Better to let John believe he was doing her a favor.

He reached for her hand before she could stop him, managing to touch her and hold her before she snapped backwards and pulled out of his grasp. Nothing would ever make her a tactile person anymore; that woman had been and gone. It was especially true of her feelings about John. Just having him near made her feel as though her skin were crawling.

He said nothing more, simply picked up the papers, folded them neatly, and tucked them away. Even with her eyes averted from his form, she knew he was watching her, drinking her in one last time. And then he was gone, striding back out of the door even as she turned to watch him make his way to his car and out of her life.

For good this time.

It would be a long time before she felt safe again and the first thing she did once he was gone was claw the doorbell out of its socket, ripping into the casing and severing the wires with all of her pent-up anger, pain, and frustration while tears fell and mingled with the prickling of glass under her skin.


	9. It's a little bit funny this feeling inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: "Your Song" by Elton John

She thought she could get used to this.

With the cat curled up under her chin and her music as loud as she could feasibly let it go without wondering when the neighbors would come down to complain, she was almost content. Henry purred noisily, occasionally headbutting her, and for once she actually managed a smile. Her life was turning upside down, but at least her cat was still the same. She knew he would always love her.

The jolt she received at the sudden click of her door opening and closing brought her upright in seconds, unceremoniously dumping her cat to the floor. No longer purring, Henry darted out of the room and up the stairs, clearly leaving to sulk in a quiet place. Helen couldn't blame him; she wished she could do that, too.

Shooting to her feet, she wheeled around to see who had so bravely invaded her house. As her eyes fell on the familiar face and the wine bottle tucked into the crook of one arm, her alarm and anger turned to confusion. Why was he here? He'd already bothered her this week.

"Nikola, it's the middle of the night."

"Before you give me that utterly taken aback look, Helen, at least explain what happened to your doorbell," Nikola huffed, looking put out that he had to resort to breaking and entering, never mind the fact that he did so on a near monthly basis. She'd lost count of the number of times she had come home to find him on the couch. "Did some rowdy teenage gang come into the neighborhood to destroy doorbells?"

Helen's eyes darted away, her arms wrapping around herself in comfort as the memories of John's visit returned. Her head gave a tiny shake as she turned towards the kitchen, her safe haven. Maybe this time she might actually be able to have that cup of tea. Or they might skip straight to the wine. Add another empty bottle to the one she hadn't had the heart to throw out yet.

"No, I did it."

Nikola's eyebrows had risen by the time she turned around again. "You, Helen? If you wanted to keep people out, you could have just gotten a 'Do Not Disturb, Beware of Painter' sign for your fence."

She couldn't help it; his words were so ridiculous that a laugh broke free before she could temper her reaction. That laugh tumbled over and over until it morphed into a half-sob and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stop herself. 

"Helen?"

He sounded hesitant, uncertain, as though he didn't quite know how to respond. Nikola was no good at the kind of comfort that James usually gave and that was exactly why Helen lo- _liked_ him so much. She didn't want an arm around her, didn't want a shoulder to cry on. What she wanted was to be left alone. Barring that, a distraction would work. Nikola always came with a distraction.

"What happened, Helen?"

Her head shook again. She could hear him shifting around the room as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember how to breathe. The feeling of being choked had returned. 

A moment later, a full glass of wine slid into view, startling her out of her thoughts. "Nikola, what...?"

"If you're going to start sobbing on me, at least have a glass of Kate." Her gaze lifted to Nikola's and she took in the way his smirk kept widening. "I hear she's a wild ride."

His smirk was met with disbelief. "Kate?" 

"I do name my wines, after all," he pointed out, as though this were perfectly natural and he'd been doing it all his life.

Helen groaned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Nigel must have told him about their conversation. Cheeky bastard.

The smirk remained in place for a second longer before Nikola returned to his naturally aloof tone and expression, leaning against the sink beside her. "So, what happened to make you tear out your doorbell?" he prodded, as though nothing unusual had happened and she hadn't just spent the last minute sobbing into her hand.

Helen picked up her wine glass and drank a sixth of it in one go.

Nikola whistled appreciatively. "Wow. And here I thought the worst problem I would face today would be dealing with your cat. Now I see I have to deal with you drunk--"

"You're the one who brought the wine."

"--and whatever will you do when there are two empty bottles adorning your counter instead of one?"

She shook her head and drained more of the glass to hide the smile threatening the corners of her lips. "John stopped by last week," she offered, finally able to speak the words without drowning. 

"That bastard," Nikola snapped.

"He actually..." It was still a revelation to Helen, still difficult to believe even after all the phone calls and her lawyer finally telling her in no uncertain terms that it was over. Such a revelation that she had yet to tell anyone at all for fear she would jinx it and break the spell. Her head shook again, this time in confusion. "He showed me the divorce papers, Nikola. They were... signed. By him. Just yesterday, I received the final call."

She blinked, pursing her lips as though she couldn't quite believe it. 

"It's over, Nikola. He let me go."

She was going to have to thank James later; she suspected his fist had a lot to do with John's change of mind.

"Well, then, that's even more reason to drink the night away," Nikola commented silkily. 

She knew he had to be thinking along the same lines that she was, that it was a wonder that John had allowed this to happen. And that it freed Helen in ways she had not been free or felt since her wedding night. For once in her life, she could do anything she wanted without consequence. With that in mind, she watched him for a few moments, taking one last sip of her wine glass, her mind on Ranna's last words to her as she set the glass down. Before she could think better of it, before she could convince herself not to, she reached out with both hands, cupped Nikola's cheeks with her fingers, and soundly pressed her lips to his. 

The moment lasted only a second before she felt his lips part under hers. Somewhere along the line his wine glass got deposited onto a surface -- she didn't hear the glass break and she knew he would never waste precious wine by dropping it on the floor -- and he pulled her closer with his fingers curled around her hips. Something in both of them had wanted this for a long, long time; she could tell in the heat and longing coming from both of them. 

Nikola hoisted her up onto the counter by the sink and her hand found the one light switch she had left on while she was curled up with Henry. With it off and the moon completely dark for the new lunar cycle, they were hidden from each other and the outside world.

As his lips found the sensitive skin at her neck just under her jaw, as his hands began the process of freeing her from her fabric prison, she thought that maybe, just maybe... 

...she could get used to this.


End file.
